


The Exception

by trashmallow



Category: Super Dangan Ronpa 2
Genre: Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Teen Romance, and let me just tell you how nOT OKAY i have been since the start, anyway tho drabble i wrote before even finishing chapter 4 so uh, basically i HC'd that gundy was gonna trY something but um, he did try something and he succeeded wELP, i'm a million years late to finally playing the sequel, just wanted to keep this straightforward without huge lapses into backstory, like cmon i knew what i was getting into but also i didn't, so this takes place in the Funhouse bc oH WHAT FUN that was, some stuff that is hinted at was unintentional and made this sadder help me, then the chapter 4 trial happened dghjnkadoghjnoa AHAHAHhaahhah i'm okay, there are some hints at gundy's past that i don't go into detail about--sorry for being coy, tips hat and exits, why are all the characters SO GOOD in sdr2 wtffff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-30
Updated: 2020-11-30
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:47:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27802540
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/trashmallow/pseuds/trashmallow
Summary: Self-indulgence drabble; just a sweet shared moment between a pair of sweet boys who don't deserve the amount of BS they go through.Set during Chapter 4, before the murder/trial. Assumed to have completed Gundham's Free Time Events.Everything hurts.
Relationships: Hinata Hajime/Tanaka Gundham
Comments: 4
Kudos: 62





	The Exception

**Author's Note:**

> -insert gif of elmo with fire burning in the bg-  
> I rise.  
> And yet as per the writer's wont, rather than continuing unfinished things, I slap down a drabble for my own pleasure. Figured I'd share it, regardless. 8')  
> uhhhh so I sorta exploded nonsense into my story's tags but basically...  
> After having only played the first DR game, I finally figured "Y'know I should actually pursue the other games." hooHOOhoho. bIG MISTAKE. Everything hurts. I love too many characters and too many characters die. Mentally I swear I'm okay.  
> So this was written when I was actually in the middle of Chapter 4 and needed a break (good choice on my part so I was mentally prepared to handle Chapter 4's trial). I stepped back from the game temporarily and needed to write this. And now that I've seen what happens, it's all 10x worse what hAVE I DONE.  
> Gundham is best boy 10/10 would recommend.  
> And I absolutely adore his interactions with Hajime; they're a "rarepair" I've come to thoroughly appreciate (with Gundham/Sonia in close second). Wanted to explore a lil tidbit of their relationship in a drabble, so this happened.  
> Hope you enjoy, and stay safe and well out there in this big bad world!

He has an effect Gundham can’t describe.

So atypical for a mere insignificant human, his presence excretes an aura that sharpens a prickle at his nape the instant he enters any room, crosses any threshold. It is here that he feels it again without need for sight. Crouched before a row of sunflowers lining the Strawberry House’s indoor park, something electrified dances up his spine, and Gundham turns his head enough so that the figure invading his space slips into view.

“The hour is late,” he murmurs into his scarf. “You intend on following me around even now?”

Hajime chooses not to reply. Or perhaps his mind has slowed too greatly from lack of nutrients. He shuffles a few paces closer, an innocence in the gesture that tucks his hands behind his back while he cranes forward to better gauge what steals his superior’s interest. All at once, Gundham and the Dark Devas blink up at him.

He looks worse than when last they spoke, skin pale and eyes sunken. And yet, in spite of it all, there is an inkling of a curve to his lips: something to discreetly brighten what color has left his face. He says, “This must be a relief for you, huh?”

Gundham’s brow furrows.

“A small convenience,” he confirms while rising back to his full height. The Dark Devas continue their mission thereafter, scurrying about the bed of flowers for sustenance to which the rest of the house’s inhabitants have no access. “It does nothing for the mortality of everyone else. You weaken right before my eyes and still—”

Surveillance of the boy’s posture breeds a momentary hesitation, attention gliding down once, then back up to steel a muted green gaze.

“You would waste what energy you have left on idle chatter. Do not mistake my intentions, but it would behoove you to replenish your strength by whatever means available. Your fragile body can’t last a great many days ahead if you refuse to maintain and care for—”

“Mistake your intentions?” Hajime interrupts his advice with a small tilt of his head. “I get that you’re worried about me and I appreciate the thought, but—”

That exact thought stutters in Gundham’s head.

“—I figure, I dunno… If we’re all going to starve to death and that stupid bear just works to streamline the process, I should spend the time I have left to the fullest, shouldn’t I?”

The original conclusion is little else but foolish, Gundham has decided ever since Hajime’s first declaration of where his preference lies: how he much rather would die from deterioration than see another violent murder among _friends_. It is not that which yields curiosity, or perhaps utter bewilderment, however; through this, Gundham is rendered without words for longer than he intends, and he recognizes the time which has passed only from the sudden intake of breath across him—filling the silence before another statement.

“Actually, I, uhh—” Hajime’s eyes drift sidelong, but Gundham’s stare never leaves. “I went to your room first and you weren’t there. Lucky thing I decided to check up here.”

“Y-you…” Gundham feels his expression betraying him. As it contorts, he dips his chin into the refuge of his scarf. “Lucky,” he mimics, softer.

Hajime peers back.

“Is that okay with you?”

He says it not absent of confidence, but with foreign sentiment considerate of Gundham’s own wishes. And Gundham can’t help the frustration which comes with it: so very far from being directed at Hajime as it is at himself, at the genuine puzzlement clouding his mind and dulling his senses. A soft noise he doesn’t realize he’s made rumbles in his throat.

“Your company is… acceptable,” he manages.

Just to receive an all too patient— _understanding_ —look in return. Fleeting, though. In brevity does it linger before a new wave of discontent warps Hajime’s pallor, and at the same time as his eyes vacate their lock again, Gundham only squints. Scrutinizes.

“You have no need to fear not waking upon the morrow.” His reassurance comes naturally, with a certainty backing every syllable. “If that is what troubles you, if you fear closing your eyes and never opening them again—You underestimate your own strength to endure.”

As swiftly as the gloom overtook his demeanor before, an initial shock at the accurate read of his worries transforms then into a wider smile. Hajime greets him with it, crinkles now at the corners of his gaze.

“You just called me ‘fragile’ not two minutes ago.”

Gundham doesn’t resist the twitch on his lips.

“Don’t get ahead of yourself; you make a grand leap from one end of the spectrum to the other,” he notes, arms folding loosely over his chest. “I merely state the obvious of what you have forgotten of our correspondence yesterday.”

Hajime blinks at him a moment. “Forgotten… Meaning—?”

“I assured you I’d not let you die without my say. Is that something you’ve begun to doubt?”

“Ah… I-I—Well, it’s not that I’m doubting _you_ —”

“Have I not lent you enough of my strength?”

“What? No, I don’t mean—”

“It may be that you understand your own body’s limits far better than I, but your mortality guarantees weakness, and I with my own power can only offer so much; the vessel in which you reside would not be able to take all that I can give, willing or otherwise.” He doesn’t regard Hajime’s continued attempts to interrupt. “If you desire more and think yourself capable of withstanding it, however, I won’t decline. Is that the reason you’ve sought me out?”

They stare in silence at each other for several dawdling seconds. When he hears a rustling in the flower bed, Gundham doesn’t need to turn his head to recognize a dispute between Jum-P and Maga-Z, but he doesn’t interfere just yet. His own patience for the other boy’s answer captures him in place: readily, if not eagerly.

Without Hajime’s response, one of his hands begins to fidget in the folds of his coat. It reacts as if to the _ghost_ of the day before, and muffled tingles scamper devilishly along every digit. He can’t fathom the yearning tug in his fingers, nor how it strengthens tenfold by the next suggestion alone.

“Are you… You’re asking me if I wanna hold hands again?”

Gundham has no semblance of what his face portrays, but whatever it may have expressed convinces Hajime to elaborate.

“I guess… Well, how is that not detrimental to you?” He ventures one step closer. “If you continue throwing all of your power into me, doesn’t that take away from you? Does it make _you_ weaker in return?”

Gundham fumbles over himself, his whole body stiffening against his permission in sync with a novel wave of warmth over his cheeks. He clears his throat furtively, hands freeing from the fold of his arms simply to adjust his scarf.

“Th-that’s…” A sideways glance acts as respite. “I’m—fine.”

Except that he feels it no different than Hajime: the flawed feebleness in his legs, the barely veiled dizziness washing about his head, an overwhelming exhaustion like chains struggling to drag him into Gehenna. He knows, then, how much _worse_ for wear a human must be—and if he is to keep his promise as contracted, then there remains no choice in the matter.

What he must do…

Is this a bittersweet gratefulness he feels for Hajime finding him when he did?

It cannot last.

A gentle sigh breezes through his teeth. He shifts sideways, a minimal movement to retreat from the conversation and take his leave. “By my reckoning, it should be nearing 10 p.m.; you should return to your dwellings in the Grape House.” A brief pause has his gaze skating the ever-moving strawberry silhouettes on the walls around them—distastefully. Partly due to his own hunger pangs. “Rest will be your best medicine.”

One step away puts Hajime in his periphery, and Gundham falters on the heel of the next to cast him a glance loaded with conviction.

“You’ll awaken after the fact. Whether you choose to trust my words, I have no say.”

Hajime shows no sign of providing an answer. He seems… distracted, in the moment, attention tarrying on something lower than Gundham’s face: the hand which has fallen limp by his side, is it? Responsive, his fingers curl into the plush of his cold palm, but Gundham wastes no mind on the matter. He’s turned to his Dark Devas, content that their squabble has been settled among themselves, and only then—

“H-hold on…” A voice rises from behind him. Gundham has yet to peer back. “Is it only your hand?”

“You ask absurd questions.”

He doesn’t follow. But he also refuses to wield the confusion openly.

“Yesterday, when you called me a… a ‘singularity’ or something and we—We held hands so you could lend me power—”

Gundham’s weight shifts so he can properly regard the source of witless rambling, all a simple recap of what they have already declared. He presumes the dance to be an evasive one, and so again raises a suggestion.

“So you _do_ wish for more after all.”

Typical of a human, he muses. There is and never will be enough of quite literally anything they receive and, the likelier, forcibly take. However, he finds himself shockingly unperturbed in this particular matter—or is it with this particular person? An _exception_ to the rule on both accounts, Gundham has already shuffled to be within touch.

Expectantly, his hand extends.

And when Hajime inches that much closer to settle his own warmer fingers down—as if upon a pedestal—a knowing chuckle thunders in Gundham’s chest.

“You are too obvious,” he comments. Fondly, if a word is to be attributed.

What he can’t begin to anticipate, though, is the command Hajime robs from him before he can establish a grip. There is no swiftness to the action, no rapid twist that sends his head reeling and struggling to reassert itself, but it stills him long enough to permit it come to pass at all.

Ahead of him, Hajime’s fingers glide along his palm to escape their fate, instead wrapping around the back of Gundham’s hand and flipping their position in the most literal sense. He maintains a delicacy with his advance, swathed in certitude but whispering sentiment Gundham hasn’t known. Curiosity prevents he make any move to stop it; as he observes, the eyes across him glide upwards to land upon his own and—

He sees something in them indescribable. Something that resides seamlessly for a series of beats that rattle in his chest.

“You didn’t answer my question,” Hajime utters. “But, let’s just say for example…”

Then, twin flames ignite anew and before he knows it…

In a blink, his hand has been lifted to unite halfway with a pair of lips. They brush gingerly along his knuckles—deliberate, the _fiend_ —as to blossom faint tingles in their wake, a reprieve (should he call it that) present in merely his two rings shielding direct touch. Hajime waits an agonizing breath, fanning warmth along his skin, before placing a reverent kiss at the top of his hand. But he lingers even so.

And Gundham rushes to compose himself before their gazes lock again.

“Does this count?” the impish human croons, and he’s kept himself in position for the sake of every word vibrating across gradually flushing skin.

His dull greens rediscover Gundham’s own dreadfully blank stare, harboring similar emotions from before, if not amplified in both sentiment and mischief. And a shudder springs up his spine, lashes out to all his veins with a new poison for which there is no antidote.

He’s frozen, own breath bated, for a meager few seconds thereafter. Then, his fingers twitch and he reclaims his hand with a move that vaguely trembles.

“D-don’t be a fool!” Gundham stammers before he can stop himself. “What did you intend on gaining from that?”

Hajime levels him with traces of a smirk.

“That.”

“‘That’?”

“Yeah, that.” Somehow, his eyes light up even more. “Your reaction.”

An aborted complaint slices off his next inhale, and when Gundham releases it, he expels the heat into his scarf; it washes over an already warmed face.

“… I-I see,” he mumbles.

Consciously or otherwise, his other hand—coiled with bandages—is what he uses to make a few needless adjustments to his attire. Perhaps he’s loath to admit it, but the print Hajime’s touch has left behind is not something he’s so eager to tarnish. That revered hand quivers beneath remembrance, and tingles still prance alive under the skin; his fingers curve as if to hold what is no longer there.

“So…?” Hajime prompts. Gundham can’t help wondering if he’s been waiting for a show of _some_ composure before speaking again.

He regards him between pointless fidgeting. “Spit it out.”

“Me? You still haven’t answered my question.”

“You are nothing if not persistent,” Gundham observes. “But you waste your time. If that was indeed an attempt of _experimentation_ , you have botched all aspects of it, for our hands still touched even so. The other… factor”—he hesitates and clears his throat—“would mean nothing.”

Hajime’s brows arch.

“Okay.” His tone lilts to illustrate thoughtfulness. “So then, _if_ I wanted my experiment to work, I’d just need to remove the ‘hands’ part of it.”

Such a _fuss._ Is he really this bothered?

“You take great issue—”

“N-no, no!” Hajime right then waves his hands in front of himself. “That’s not it! I’m just curious. It’s like… Not a lot of people are allowed to touch you—”

“It’s an allowance I cannot provide, lest they perish right before my eyes.”

“… Right, yeah. But I’m an exception to that rule, we’ve, um… established. With your help,” he goes on, and Gundham still can’t discern the point he’s endeavoring to make. “So, what I’m trying to say is”— _ah, here we go_ —“I won’t _wither_ through any physical contact with you anymore, right?”

An amount of his previous lapse of poise disintegrates following the inquiry, and muscles that have tightened without his knowledge release simultaneously with a chuckle. “You go through all that… Just to seek an obvious answer,” Gundham reflects. He lets the response sit for a few. Then: “Correct; you cannot be harmed in the ways any other human would be, I have made sure of it.”

“Cool.” Hajime contemplates. “Then, let’s say I wanted to do something like kiss you—”

Gundham blanches, and he can’t ignore a lurch behind his ribcage. “Y-you—?” Shock forces him to pause and mildly recollect himself. “What on Earth do you imply, ‘something like’?”

He must feel some relief, for it is not only him rightly affected by the suggestion. Even the agent himself bumbles over his syllables at the start, and faint as it may be, Gundham detects dustings of pink across his pallid cheeks. Hajime’s breathy laugh does little to mask sudden nerves, but it’s without trying that the sound ruptures the rhythm in his chest.

“O-okay, bad phrasing,” the silly boy relents. “Ignore the ‘something like.’ How about I just ask if it’s okay to kiss you?” A hand courses through mussed locks, and he presents a shrug as if to feign nonchalance. “Is that something you’d want?”

Like a curse set to render him utterly helpless, Gundham cannot do a _thing._ His legs refuse to move, solidifying beneath him; if not for his continued life, he’d think he no longer breathed; and all ruminations screech to a halt, erased, _wiped_ from ever existing in the first place. He can do naught but stare at the mortal before him, he who stares back with a gaze in vigilance searching him.

Truly, there’s no telling how much time passes.

“You can say ‘no,’” Hajime eventually assures him. “That’s—You’re allowed to do that. I wouldn’t’ve asked if I didn’t care how you felt about it.”

“It’s not a matter of whether I can or can’t,” Gundham’s quick to clarify. As if a mere human would have the power to allow or disallow _any_ of what he did.

He recaptures enough command over his body to fold his arms again: so peculiar, how he can feel a chill at the same time as heat floods his veins. While Hajime proceeds to watch him, he turns his attention sidelong, and the absence of a reply insinuates that his own answer be unsatisfactory. So, he strives to correct it.

“It would be permissible,” he asserts. “But how you hope to benefit from the exchange is unfathomable.”

“A-are you…? Are you serious?”

Hajime removes an extra tidbit of space between them. Not so much an advance to do something, but an act of instinct complementing the appalled exclamation.

“Gundham, I told you already, I’m not doing any of this for my own personal gain; hanging out with you, spending any amount of time with you—Yeah, so… okay, it’s a _benefit_ to me, but only because it’s something I _want_ to do. That’s it.” His brows knit together while he speaks, and his expression bleeds a type of exasperation Gundham can’t pin. He senses no real anger to it. “So, fine, sure; I _guess_ the benefit for this would be the same. That’s why I’m asking.”

Hajime firmly reiterates his intent: “I _want_ to kiss you.”

And just then, Gundham remembers the boy from preliminary school.

A time in a past that seemed so distant, now, Gundham hadn’t been quite as tainted with poison as he is today, and so the possibility of friends—of companionship—had been drastically higher. Safer. He and the boy had formed a bond in the aftermath of so ghastly an affair: when a great evil strove to capture Gundham across dimensions and so made all paths to the safety of his residence foreign and impossible to navigate—the boy had been his guide. And for many days onward, a human he could trust better than all others.

That is until the day he made his mistake. The day the boy was tempted past mere touch of their hands, to the brush of chaste lips over his cheek. Perish the memory of what came after, how Gundham then had no choice but to keep a distance. Indeed, it was nothing short of necessity. Otherwise, someone was bound to get _hurt_.

 _She_ had told him that.

She had said—

 _He_ had said—

“Gundham…?”

He’s drawn back to the present, to a pair of green alight in his field of vision and roaming every curve on his face.

And he yields in defiance of trifling want.

“It would _benefit_ you,” Gundham advises, “to not exercise inconsequential desires. There is much I can protect you from, but—”

“Gundham.”

“Even I cannot guarantee—”

“Hey…”

“—and so it is better that you forget this conversation has transpired at all—"

“Gundham—!”

It’s not loud enough to be a shout, but the hitch in volume still persuades silence as a result. And if not that, then the renewed grip of the boy’s hand—to what he can reach while Gundham’s are tucked safely away; a set of imploring fingers dig into his upper arm and simultaneously anchor him as they do create tumultuous waves in his core. Fresh tension pulls taut a string between them, and Gundham steadies Hajime’s stare while the calm before a storm passes.

But then… so peculiarly, the storm never actually hits.

That surprisingly strong clutch—even more surprising given their circumstances—relinquishes somewhat. Yet Hajime’s hand doesn’t make its full retreat, ever so content nestling into folds of his black coat and simply _staying_ for however long it’s allowed.

“I want you to… forget about me just for a second, alright?” There’s kindness again in every blink, or perhaps it never vanished to begin with. Hajime doesn’t leave it at that, and his free hand shifts to Gundham’s other arm in a mirroring gesture: encouraging, patient, _soft_. “Let’s just pretend… th-there’s nothing to worry about. No, um… poison or starvation or… the stupid amount of crazy going on right now.”

Gundham maintains his quiet, placidly awaiting what point Hajime aspires to reach. But the fingers on one hand twitch at the proximity of that which holds his arm—a minor shift brings the faintest brush over Hajime’s thumb.

“In that made-up world where none of that matters, where you _don’t_ have to be concerned that… that no one can get close to you without getting hurt—”

He despises his flinch, minuscule as it is.

“In _that_ hypothetical world”—Hajime brings them toe-to-toe, and somehow the move on its own cracks an invisible barrier, the spark to a flame which stands to threaten them _both_ —“ _would_ you want… Would you kiss me?”

He’s given pause, and dare he admit he’s let this fiend _move_ him in such a way. Truly, Gundham cannot recall the last another requested this of him: that he expose his desires so easily, so transparently—that he recognize first of all what they even are. And it is by his own nature, certainly. His own distance. His solitude—or what would be solitude without the demons he’s tamed.

All this time refusing companionship, evading the “benefits” which come with it when he recognizes the danger his sullied blood poses… Never has he given anyone the _chance_. The chance to be selfless and in turn allow him the opposite.

Because it is true. If he succumbs now, permits a selfishness for even a second…

Well, then.

Surprising even himself, he knows what he’d do.

“You…” Gundham’s single word croaks as if he’s not used his voice in millennia, and an arm shakily shifts to readjust the comfort of his scarf over his face. “… are a bewilderment.”

And Hajime wounds him again with a grin. “Oh, really?” His hands squeeze their perches. “Am I that special?”

_Yes._

Yes… Somehow—You are.

And that’s why…

A frown sinks unto his lips, that which he doesn’t fight merely due to the veil of his scarf. He swallows a stone lodged in his throat, and when his gaze slinks sideways, he’s inadvertently encouraged Hajime to bring him back. The human—the exception, the _special_ —reaches up to crinkles of purple. A meticulous series of tugs loosens it from his face and neck, frees him to a cold atmosphere in comparison. And then, again, they simply _look_ at each other.

“So?” Hajime persists in a timbre gone soft. Mere _suggestion_ , not pressure.

The tempo in Gundham’s chest staggers.

He can hardly hear himself when he concedes.

“Yes.”

And for some reason… he’s trembling.

Even when he is certain he means it, when he has trained himself not to speak unless confident in his words, in his conviction. He exhales the simple response—and too what can be attributed to more than just the verbalized inquiry—and no sooner feels weaker than ever before. And conceivably… Hajime may be right. He very well may be sacrificing his own strength, lending far too _much_ …

 _No_ , Gundham argues. _For him, it will never be enough._

Thus, the lingering pause is short before Hajime accepts. He does not, as it would seem, string Gundham behind any longer, rather taking initiative in the proper circumstance and with means that are calculated. Admirable. Gundham has seen this awaken in investigations and trials at their end, but here before him and so _intimately_ a case, he shines that much brighter.

For it is meticulous, the way the fingers in his scarf unfurl to graze along the cut of his jaw. Scant contact incites the shivers ricocheting up and down Gundham’s spine, and when the full warmth of a palm blankets his cheek, his muted jolt is visceral.

So foolish, how he continues to quiver like in the midst of a blizzard. He fears emitting a breath should it betray him even more.

Reverently, Hajime holds him. He waits for the weight of his face to lean ever so slightly into the touch—consent, acceptance—before proceeding, and his actions all the same brim with immeasurable compassion and care. The hand on Gundham’s arm rides down to reunite with its previous partner; fingers intertwine smoothly, and Gundham cannot tell if his responding squeeze has occurred on its own, or in fact been subconscious intention.

But he does not let go as their linked hands sink to their sides, as the block of Gundham’s folded arms is demolished between them.

A thumb skates the ridge of his cheekbone. He risks a deeper look into eyes at a startling proximity, and certainly… No amount of preparation, training, anything he has done in all his life would have been enough to equip him for this _single_ moment.

Not another soul looks at him like this. As though his veins run with liquid gold instead of toxins. In turn, the fingers drifting absentmindedly over his cheek carry a mimicked sentiment, and Gundham for a fleeting moment fears the previously disregarded fragility in his legs will be his downfall. They threaten to buckle beneath him, but he holds steadfast.

When he finally breathes, it shudders all the way from his chest.

Their heights are advantageous here—equal enough that they’ve no need to bend or stretch—and so it is with that that they hardly require much more than a discreet shift to complete the deed. Already this close, Gundham is alerted to the puffs of warmth which come from each of Hajime’s exhales; his gaze trickles down. His heart _falters_ in his lungs’ stead.

Then, a bold act from his exception seals them. No trace of timidity, nothing quite so _shy_ after the sequence of careful advances which have brought them this far. His hand smooths back, fingers dipping behind Gundham’s ear, and he’s steered forward just enough to land a kiss.

The damned thing caged in Gundham’s ribs all but _wrenches_ at the same time as new fires prance from head to toe.

All caution to the wind, he on his own side takes a mere agonized beat of that destroyed organ to recover himself. While a pair of warm, devilishly soft lips ensnare his lower, Gundham needs no rumination to summon his free hand forth; with it, he ventures over thin fabric at Hajime’s waist, following the trail of his hip bone until he can establish somewhat of a hold. He ushers the boy that much more into his space.

It isn’t lewd. In fact, there is a transparent innocence in the gesture: far from a bridge over which they trek to the desired destination, but wholly the destination itself. Evenly, they require nothing more from each other—nothing beyond what the other is willing to give. And they settle into the expression of _affection_ as effortlessly as if they’ve endured lifetimes hand-in-hand.

No lack of fervor through it all. Gundham answers the gesture in that manner, the tremble of his frame not so much _nerves_ now as it is some inkling of relief. Imprisoned by his own nature, giving no allowance to intimacy from anyone— Has he perhaps in all this time forgotten just how desperately he’s _yearned_ for what he cannot have?

And yet… even so—

He reminds himself it will not last.

The rupture of contact leaves their breaths mingling in the minimal space between their faces. Gundham recognizes the shift of that hand down to his shoulder, and as it nests there, his own curls somewhat _tighter_ into what it can gather of Hajime’s shirt. He holds on. He _has_ to hold on. Even if he can’t recall when that no longer became a choice, but a _need_.

“Th-there, see?” Hajime is the first to speak, and his words flutter out on an optimistic air—something devastatingly rarer as the days go on. “Not so bad, right?”

Gundham’s fingers fidget in Hajime’s hand. “Did I leave the impression that I think it’d be?”

He’s met with a few rapid blinks. “Uh… No. No, you’re right. Stupid of me to imply…”

An unreadable expression breeds silence in return, but Gundham gives the topic no further attention. Rather, he feels something within him abruptly soften then, and his grip abandons Hajime’s waist to instead travel upward. Reverence from his side paints the gesture of flicking back stray tendrils of brown framing Hajime’s face. And his attention roams messy locks in distracted fondness before locating again an innocently curious gaze.

Gundham smiles.

“Yes,” he murmurs, and when confusion presses a crinkle to Hajime’s brow, Gundham elaborates. “You are special.”

Color deepens in the other’s cheeks.

“And that is why,” Gundham continues, “I promise your life. While I’m here, no harm will come to you.”

Hajime stares at him. Detectable, the unrest which awakens in the twitch of his fingers, but Gundham simply holds him that much tighter.

“Gundham, you don’t have to… There’s no way for you to guarantee—”

“Don’t underestimate me,” he advises, tone stern and effectively silencing the argument. “You have my word.”

“B-but…” Is it… _realization_ that flashes in his eyes? “You can’t mean...?”

Gundham says nothing.

Even as an inexplicable force rips at his insides, endeavors to tear him into pieces and burn them to ash, he holds steady his gaze: deliberate, reassurance that everything he says is nothing short of the truth. And then, all at once, before he lacks the strength to do so, he steps back.

He lets him go.

The cold that surges both in and around him must be imaginary, but it feels realer than everything else.

“Enough, then.” Too soon, his hands feel empty; he occupies them on his scarf. “By the bear’s meddling, we will be expected on the early morning’s hour. If you are finished—even if you are _not_ …”

“Right. Okay, okay.” Hajime frees himself from what appears a worried trance to wave him off. “Bedtime; I know.” Like a child, he grumbles. “Never dubbed you the nagging type. Guess we’re both full of surprises, huh?”

He says it as if he knows… He _knows_ the effect he has, the utter _enigma_ he continues to be in Gundham’s existence. And when he flashes him a smile to complement it, Gundham once more can’t deny the electricity sparking across his nape, strengthening to the sting right down his spine.

“And you?” Hajime asks.

“Me?”

“You’re heading straight to bed when your, uh… Devas of Destruction have… replenished their energy or-or something, right?” He stows his hands in his pockets and offers a somewhat reproachful frown.

Gundham looks at him. Then, he peers over at the four in question, those who at this point appear to be waiting on _him_ —no doubt observing this entire exchange—as opposed to the other way around. But nevertheless… He does not plan to retire to his quarters just yet.

Despite his silent nod giving evidence to the contrary.

Whether Hajime takes his reaction as truth, Gundham can’t discern; he at the very least accepts it, and so turns to sidle around the short gates barring the pathetically tiny park from the rest of the third floor. With his back in view, Gundham too inches out of the sand around the swing set. Briefly, he regards the playground equipment and feels… _wistful_.

But he reminds himself that there are far more pressing matters to attend.

The Dark Devas scamper up to his boots, and it is precisely as Gundham kneels to retrieve them that he hears Hajime’s somewhat more distant voice hailing him.

“Hey—Gundham?”

While the Devas pour into his palms and up his arms, Gundham rises. He says nothing, only steeling Hajime’s gaze; already, the boy is halfway across the room, which incredibly seems like _miles_ between them.

“I…” Hajime hesitates, though Gundham doesn’t understand why. And when he collects himself, he’s presumably bypassed what he may have meant to express before. “S-see you in the morning.”

There’s that smile. The last he knows he’ll see of it for the night. Something taints it so that it cannot reach his eyes, but it’s there nevertheless. Its effect is no different. Why now do his lips fleetingly tremble?

He manages, though.

“Yes,” he determines.

Gundham wonders if they are both trapped in the seconds thereafter, teetering on the edge of wanting to say more, but not knowing what. Not knowing how.

When Hajime proceeds for the stairs, he finds himself counting his steps. Without realizing it. Without realizing he has to forcibly anchor himself in place lest he be tempted to follow. Without realizing every single point of contact from before—that one cheek, his arms, his hands, his lips—has become desolate, wholly wrecked by a taste too swiftly taken away.

He doesn’t realize that when Hajime pauses before the steps to look back, it means more than all that the universe can give him.

And perhaps that is why…

_Yes._

They lock eyes. Gundham nods. Hajime turns for the last time to make his descent.

_I will not—_

_No, I_ cannot _—_

_I cannot allow you to die._


End file.
